Third Wheel
by Nomen Ist Omen
Summary: If he has to be the third wheel, he'll be. HikaHaru. Dark.


**Third Wheel**

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. Thankfully.

Author's Notes: This is dark and angsty. It's vague and there is a lot left unsaid, too. All criticism accepted (flame me, if you feel an urging need to do so, but I won't take you seriously; however, concrit is loved). I am honestly not expecting any reviews for this, but .. meh. I just wanted to write something darker. I do admit that it might be too short; if you feel it should be longer, tell me.

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It's not easy to love when you're always standing in someone's shadow, the third wheel being tossed back in the effulgent glory that makes up an entity. That's what Hikaru thinks and, though, he's not big on poetry, he knows that the above description hits the nail on the head.

He loves Haruhi, has ever since that crazy, unaffected with and by everything girl literally burst into his life and turned his world topsy-turvy. No, he might not have always loved her quite like this – not with this intensity, but he knew that Haruhi attracted him. Like a moth to the light or ... fuck, he just doesn't know. Poetry isn't his thing and, metaphors, smilies are lost on him. That's Kaoru's forte.

He's no longer fifteen, the awkwardness of puberty and "woe is me" phases have left him: Hikaru is a man now, often more tired and worn down that he'd like to admit. And he sees things more clearly now, more than he'd like to. Kaoru tells him that's brilliant, since he now knows what it means to really_ love_.

Hikaru wishes it weren't the case because, honestly, he was happier when he didn't know.

Haruhi makes very good wife: she's accommodating and prepares him breakfast in the morning, deeming that she won't have any maid serving her. She's not keen on shopping and doesn't make his life hell by throwing hissy fits. She's calm and keeps to herself, working as a lawyer and she's good at what she does. Dubbed as a genius by some, Haruhi is one of the best female lawyers in Tokyo.

Hikaru would like to believe that she loves him like he does her when he's in bed with her. He'd like to believe that the hands wrapped around his neck and the warm body arching under his isn't just a dream. That's she's there with him. Haruhi keeps her eyes closed when he's intimate with her – when he moves inside of her, trying to prove her that he wants her this much. That she's a goddess to him and he, Hikaru, is totally enshrouded by her. He's so immersed with being by her side that he can't imagine anything else. He never wants to.

But he knows that Haruhi isn't really his, that the he might just as well be fucking a prostitute. It's crude and vulgar -- obscene even, but when she's so submissive and pliable it's hard to think otherwise. Letting him enter her and kiss her, lick her neck and touch her body all he wants, Hikaru asks himself whether she's only doing this because she must. Not because she really wants to – not with him, at least. He'll earn a moan from her and Haruhi does kiss him back, but it's never passionate – Hikaru doesn't feel that she's drowning in him like he's in her.

He feels like he's being used.

And this drives him crazy at times, sends him beyond the fence and makes him think that he's fucking deranged to be going on like this. He's Hikaru, a rich man, who could have anything under the sun and shouldn't have to live like this. He doesn't have to accept spoilt milk, but could find himself ... No, there's nothing better than Haruhi. Not for him. But he still thinks he doesn't deserve this, though another part tells him that she deserves better than him.

"Why did you marry me, Haruhi?"

He asks her, one of those days, when he's back from his job, soaked in sweat from the heat outside: the living room is basking in sunlight, a vibrant yellow hits him in the eye, blazing him, and he's nearly blind. He squints his eyes and looks at her frame – her medium-length hair, the delicate outlines of her face and the feminine, yet girlish body that makes men want to protect her.

"Why this question, all of a sudden?" she asks curiously, not noticing the despair behind his words. She's so damned clueless, still. Or she pretends to be. He doesn't know. She returns to her magazine, shuffling between the pages. Hikaru wants to break something. This is impossible. He won't be tormented anymore.

"Just answer. _Please_."

"Because I wanted to, Hikaru."

"And not because it was convenient, eh? Because _he _wouldn't have you?"

Hikaru regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth, for the slip-up has severe consequences on the woman he loves. For a brief second, her mask slips and he sees hurt and confusion, but, most of all, regret etched on her features – but it's gone quickly and replaced by anger. But he can't forget what he saw; it's the only time Hikaru saw what Haruhi is capable of feeling. It's the only time he saw his own love reflected in her features, but it wasn't for him. Hikaru knows that much.

"What are you-?"she starts, choosing her words carefully and her hands tremble. She's furious beyond belief. And Hikaru is nearly frenzy with emotion – he wants to hit her, to shake the awful feelings out of her. Hikaru hates it, hates that she won't love him like that. He needs to get out – out of the stifling apartment.

"Fuck it, Haruhi. I'm – out."

He doesn't know where he's walking to; the people on the streets are as invisible to him as the darkening of the day is. He doesn't hear nor see – is too wrapped up in gloomy reflections to do anything, but walk and walk.

He seeks out a brothel, a place he's never been to before. It's sleazy and ugly, reeks of alcohol and the cheap furniture insults his fine taste. He's beyond caring now and hopes that no one from the papers is here, but, even if they were here, he doesn't give a fuck.

The woman he meets is as artificial and cheap as the building itself; she's not even pretty. Not like Haruhi. Yet, he fucks her and, closing his eyes, pretends that she's the one he worships and that her screams and yells are for him. It's raw and desperate: he abhors it so much. Abhors it because the voice inside his head tells him it's wrong and that this isn't a substitute. He's never slept with another woman besides Haruhi and now he's soiled himself. He's done the one thing he never wanted to do; he's betrayed his own convictions.

The apartment is dark when he returns and the light flickers oddly for a few seconds after Hikaru turns it on. He startles when he sees Haruhi right there where he left her.

"Where were you?"

There's no accusation in her tone; she's just asking because, as a good wife, that's the thing you are supposed to do. Hikaru suppresses the fury building up inside of him and forces his voice to be neutral.

"Out. For a walk."

She doesn't answer, but he knows she doesn't believe him. His hair is tousled and his tie has come undone; he's sure that she smells the perfume on him, too. Or so he thinks. He's always been a bad liar. She's cruel, he thinks. She's cruel because she knows. But won't say a word because she's a lawyer and lawyers are all about compromise.

"I'm sorry. About before. I shouldn't have...forget it."

And she does because Haruhi is good at doing that. She shoves down their problems and Hikaru accepts it because, in the long run, he can only have her like this. She'd leave, if he ... and Hikaru would break. Kaoru once told him that love is about being able to give up one's own selfishness up and he's willing to do that.

If he has to be the third wheel, he'll be.

...


End file.
